Pulled from the wreckage
by Nothingatall11
Summary: As last thoughts go, that one was pretty crappy.


**I wrote some Supernatural! And I ahven't really watched much of hit. To be honest I have only seen like one episode with Cas in it. But I am VERY fond of Dean/cas fics, So I just kind of had to write one myself. Hope you like it!  
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Dean loves the hunt.

The first spark of suspicion, then the roles they play, different each time, to find out more.  
Then there's some arguing. Mostly between himself and Sam, but he doesn't mind. A bit of argument is good for the nerves, keeps you alert. Besides, Sam is never happy if he hasn't had his fill of bitchin' for the day.  
After the arguing they usually pick up the trail, and that's when the hunt starts for real. When they get to that point, the thinking stops. It's not that he isn't capable of thinking; it's just that he doesn't need it. He's done this for long enough to be able to work it on instinct.  
The pounding of his head as he runs, the smell of fresh blood, his or someone else's, the scent of fear in his prey, as he closes in on it… He doesn't like to admit it, but this, the hunt, is the only time he feels right. Some people have accused him of using it as a substitute for sex.  
Which was dumb, obviously.

This was way better.

After the chase, there's usually a kill. Or several, Dean isn't picky. They reach their goal, they kill the bad guy, sometimes a few times over, and for a moment everything is fucking glorious. If the hunt was his substitute for sex, then this was definitely the orgasm. He might not always show it, but after a kill he is high as a freakin' kite. The shitty part is that the afterglow fucking sucks.

Because maybe it's not like sex. Maybe it's more like being high on drugs. And once you get off your high, everything else sucks in comparison. And the side effects starts to kick in, such as shotgun pellets embedded in his shoulder (that was going to be painful to get out) or a twisted ankle from when he fell two stories because of a rotten floor.

The side effects faded with time, but the first few hours after a hunt were fucking torture. There were a few ways to make it a bit easier though.  
Like getting laid.  
Or wasted.  
Preferably both.

_Not that I can do any of that tonight, _Dean thought with a sigh as he pulled out from the driveway of the old hospital they had tracked the pack of vampires to. It had been a long hunt, and he was in no mood to go find some alcohol or women. And then there was the shotgun pellets in his shoulder forcing him to get home and do something about it fast. Besides, Sam had gone home with the only good looking woman for miles. To make sure she was all right, obviously. Though the chivalrous bastard sure as hell wouldn't be getting any either. Dean would bet his car that Sam would be sleeping on her couch tonight, alone. The rental car he was currently driving, of course. He might be a gambler, but no way would he risk his baby in a bet.

A that though, the car made a little weird noise, as if it had heard him, and threatened to give up on him in the middle of the freeway. A few curses and a well-placed hit on the dashboard made it change its mind though, and ran smoothly again. If you can call it that, it was an old Volvo after all.  
Dean couldn't help but send a few thoughts to his baby, that he had sent to the shop to get a big dent on the hood fixed (and, apparently, the insurance didn't cover vampire attacks. Damn.).

It was just a few miles back to the motel, and he really couldn't wait to get back there. The empty roads of a Sunday late in October wasn't helping his foul mood, and he could still go with the light version of the preferred post-hunt-medicine, a beer from the trunk and jerking off in the shower.  
And then he could watch some Oprah re-runs or something.

A pigeon flew past the windscreen, making him wake up from his thoughts momentarily. It dropped a feather in its hurry, and it stuck to the glass.

_Do angels watch Oprah?_

The thought was unwelcome, and he shook it out of his head. Of course Cas didn't watch Oprah.

_Only you were thinking about angels, not specifically Cas, right?_

Since when had his inner voice started to sound like Sam? And argued against his own thought phrasing? Come _on._

_How come you associate everything with Cas nowadays, Dean?_

Yet another unwelcome though. Dean shook his head, refusing to argue with his own head when it didn't even make sense. He blamed the blood loss, and tried to focus on the road. Besides, no man in their right mind watched Oprah.

…

Unless there was nothing else on, of course.

…

They hadn't seen Cas for a while. Dean wasn't worried.

_Moving on._

The bad part about not trying to think about something is that the only cure for it is thinking about something _else _that you don't really want to think about.

Like the fact that he's still suffering from post-hunt-sickness. And that the emptiness in his chest seems to swallow every happy thought that has ever crossed his mind. And that he'll be spending the evening alone. Without the distractions that he so desperately need. Because he knows that after he's cleaned his woulds, taken his shower and his beer, nothing would feel better. Because he won't feel like watching TV. And he's too tired to look for more cases, yet he won't be able to sleep.  
Most likely he'll end up on the bed, in the dark, listening to the hum of the radiator and feeling sorry for himself. We'll isn't that a happy thought. He should probably-

Suddenly, the road ahead isn't as empty as he thought it had been. A car with broken lights was just ahead, and he was just about to turn into the motel driveway. By instinct, he floors the brakes, but nothing happens, the ground is too slippery with ice and the rental car has terrible tires. There really is no time to think about anything, and yet everything seems to move in slow motion. As the old Volvo slides sideways into the other car, Dean feels almost weightless for a few moments.

Then there's a loud crash, and Dean is lounged sideways in the car and now he _has _time to think.

And what he thinks is _Man, this sure won't be good for my blood loss._

And then, _as last thoughts go, that one was pretty crappy._

* * *

Everything was a bit too bright.  
Someone was pulling at the neck of his jacket, and he tried to swat at whoever it was, but his arm wouldn't move quite the way he wanted it to. Instead it just wavered a bit at his side, no real strength. So made an annoyed sound instead, not really wanting to wake up already.

But the hands (without gloves. Must be freezing in this weather) wouldn't go away. They took hold of his jacket by the shoulders, and pulled harshly on him, causing his legs to remind Dean of their existence. _Painfully_ so.

He made another noise (A manly grunt, of course), trying to turn away from the annoying hands. Then there was another pull, stronger, and he let out a (slightly less manly) yelp as he was pulled through some kind of metal frame. Shards of something sharp (glass?) was tearing at his shirt and piercing the skin on his back, and then he was out in the cold autumn air, shaking from cold or perhaps something else. He couldn't quite tell. The hands that had pulled him out left his neck, and footsteps on the asphalt told him that whoever the hands belonged to was going back to the crash site (crash site? He'd been in a crash?), and he realized that he missed them. The initially irritation was gone, replaced by a confused feeling of being lost. Bits of the last moments came back, all scrambled up. The Volvos tiers sliding on the ice, the wonderful feeling of the hunt, the thought about angels and TV, then the weightlessness, before he was just filled with an overwhelming feeling of emptiness, all of the post-hunt-feelings returning at once, then making him gasp out in pain as he could feel his legs again, broken at several places under the crushing weight of the car. It felt like he was falling again, through the ground this time, feeling cold to the bone, and trying somewhere in his mind to straighten out his thoughts, find the surface again, and see the sky above him, not just thinking that it simply _must be there._

Then Cas is back. And he knows it's him. He's known all along.

Since when could he recognize the angel just by the feel of his hands pulling him up, and the sound of his steps on the ground?

But Cas is back. And he's holding Dean up, trying to talk to him, saying his name again and again and Dean quite likes that. He can't really answer, but it doesn't matter. He can smile.

Because Cas is back.

And everything is going to be all right.


End file.
